Saturday, 1 April 2017

I Postponed Slitting My Wrists To Witness The Return Of Dee Bliss But Now I've Discovered She's Actually Some Bitch Called Andrea Somers It Just Confirms My Opinion That Everything In Life Is Disappointing And Shit And That Like Ragnar I'd Be Better Off At The Bottom Of A Snakepit

And then, that's it. Once you can carry yourself away from your mother's tit, you walk blindly seeking 'it', whatever 'it' is - they don't tell you that bit, they just send you off in search of it. And then when you get lost, and your life is about as great as falling backwards in half rotted compost, they expect you to pick yourself up and carry on. As if this 'it' you'll stumble upon will be the carrot to hang your crown on. So you toil and shape your little world around you, buy insurance and a burial plot to surround you, and then you find out in your final moments before death, that the 'it' has been and gone, it's something you once had and now will end up left.

Confused,
                you die,
                             generally disaffected,

wishing that as a baby you raided the kitchen cabinet and chugged some disinfectant.


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